


to make things right (hold me tight)

by greekdemigod



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: F/F, because wtf, fix-it fic for 3x01, mentions of Susanna and Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 04:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8314261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greekdemigod/pseuds/greekdemigod
Summary: The missing scenes between "Now come on, it's time to go" and "Where am I?", because we deserved more from 3x01.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have been feeding on my sad, cold rage and my lack of significant sleep since I saw the ending of the episode. There was no way I was going to fall asleep again, though, so instead I decided to write and then I banged out this thing.
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading (and that it can take away some of the bad taste after that crappy episode ending)!

When Susanna steps into the room, dapper as ever in the powder blue suit, Luisa is ready to rip her clothes right off and have her way with the blonde already. It’s been months and she’s craving—it’s a feeling she knows well, a hunger that gnaws at her.

She isn’t just addicted to alcohol.

She is addicted to women, too. The slide of slick skin, the wild thumping of a frenzied heart, fingers and nails clawing at her and tearing at her, demanding a part of a heart that’s already given too much, the flutter of eyelids, the space between breaths, strangled moans—

She wants that with Susanna so _badly_.

And then Susanna is saying confusing things. And then Susanna is Rose. And then—

And then Luisa feels like she’s going to faint; a low, whining throb at her temples betrays a headache is settling in. She feels weak on her legs, so she sinks down on the couch she just got up from in such a good, bright, giddy mood.

That mood has been dashed against the wall to bleed out and die.

She ignores Rose—Rose wearing Susanna’s suit, but her own smug smile, and dark hair that suits her but is such a far cry from the lovely, vibrant red hair Luisa is used to.

The first thing that leaves her lips, as those things go, is: “I need a drink.” She releases a dry, humorless laugh and lets her head drop into her hands. She doesn’t cry—doesn’t think she has any tears left to shed over _Rose_ , and mourning Susanna will have to come later, when she processes that Susanna isn’t real, was never real, _they_ weren’t real.

It would be enough to drive anyone crazy, but Luisa has a disposition for it, so _that_ ’s why she’s considering running away with Rose, right? She must have finally gone crazy, like her family’s expected for years.

She has always been looked at as a time bomb. Luisa tried to be good; the dutiful daughter, the exemplar doctor, the loyal wife. But she has more experience being bad; becoming a drunk, dragging their family name through the mud, choosing the criminal over and over and over again.

Maybe it’s easier if she just accepts that she’s the bad seed, the disappointment, the screw-up.

Maybe it’s easier if she just says _yes_ to Rose.

“Here, have these instead.” Rose has finally shed the layer of confidence pulsing around her and now she looks almost like a regular woman, though the most beautiful one Luisa has ever seen. She’s still all piercing eyes and sharp angles, pale skin that bruises so easily, freckles that she can’t help but get hung-up on.

When Rose produces a roll of powdered donuts as if out of thin air, Luisa smiles weakly, watery. Maybe there are _some_ tears left.

The snack goes down with some difficulty, her throat dry and closing up around the sugary sweetness. It feels like choking. She swallows a few times and then rubs at her throat, easing the sting. Dark eyes settle uncertainly on Rose.

“I still can’t believe this,” she whispers, hand sliding up to fist into her own hair, tug at it. She shivers with the pain of it, but it momentarily helps her clear her mind. It’s so difficult to _think_. Rose smells like herself again, too, like she knew today would be the day she’d reveal herself so she used her own scents again; the perfume feels cloying now though, too sweet, too sharp, too heady.

Luisa has spent months trying to remember that smell—and the feeling of Rose pressed against her, the softness of the woman’s lips in her neck, of her teeth grazing at her pulse—but now she finds it to be too much too sudden.

Rose is about to answer when her phone rings from the pocket of her pants. She reattaches the voice-thingy that makes her sound like Susanna and picks up.

Luisa studies the other while she’s on the phone. It’s some nifty, ingenious tech that she’s got strapped to her throat, because though she looks nothing like Susanna anymore, she sounds so much like her that it’s jarring. The southern drawl is back. She sounds genuinely concerned about Michael, who, from what Luisa gathers, has been shot?

And suddenly it makes so much sense. Why Rose needs so desperately to go. Why _tonight_ , of all nights. Why she doesn’t want to slip off quietly when Michael and Jane are off on their honeymoon.

She recoils, pressing herself into the corner of the couch, trying to make herself small—she has always been physically small, her personality too big for her bones and skin, but now she tries to minimize even that.

Rose shot Michael. On his wedding night, too.

She has had time to adjust everything she thought she knew about Rose. Has had time to come to think of her as _Rose, the crime lord, the king pin drug dealer, the plastic surgery ring handler, the fugitive, the sociopath_.

But a part of her has clung onto how she used to know Rose, hers for only stolen moments and a day here and there, both gentle and strong, compassionate and earnest.

It’s hard to swallow her bile back, to keep from growing dreadfully cold. _This_ is bad and maybe she’ll try her hand at being good one more time after all.

“Luisa.” Rose turns to her after she puts down the phone, as soon as she regains her own voice. That velvety, liquid electricity of a voice. “I know you must have a million questions and I will answer them. I _will_. But we have to go.”

“You shot him.”

A beat of silence. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“He was starting to catch on. Luisa, it might not look like it, but I’m doing this for you. For _us_.”

Luisa shot off the couch as if she had been zapped, limbs shuddering as she tried to stay upright. “Oh, that’s _nice_. That’s just—really freaking great, Rose! You killed someone for me, that’s _romantic_.”

“He isn’t dead.”

“Rose!” Luisa snapped, pressing her hands against her temples. “Oh my god, I can’t believe this. I can’t believe _you_. I didn’t think you were actually this crazy.”

The space between them tenses, crackles. Two pairs of eyes lock together and the exchange of emotions between them forces Luisa stumbling backwards to find purchase against the wall and Rose to her feet.

“Don’t call me crazy,” Rose mumbles and her voice doesn’t sound like much of anything anymore. “I’m not.”

“I don’t know if I can go with you.”

The former redhead’s nod is curt, chilly. “I get it.”

“But I don’t know if I can just let you go, either.”

They are two women standing in front of each other, looking at each other, pleading for different things. Rose pleads for time, to get to explain everything, to show Luisa she means it. Luisa pleads that this won’t be another decision she’ll regret making.

“Can we go somewhere to talk?” the brunette finally asks, knowing that it’s close enough to agreeing to run away with Rose that it makes no matter.

“I would like that.”

* * *

They are at a diner some miles north of Miami. All the way through the drive, Luisa was thinking, struggling through her headache and her craving for something to make her forget any of this happened, to try and make sense of things. To attempt a list of all the questions she _needs_ answered before she can agree to anything.

As soon as she stepped out of the car she threw up.

She would have liked to be strong enough to shrug off Rose when the woman gently rubbed circles over her back and told her it was okay, but she wasn’t strong enough. Would she ever be strong enough to tell Rose no?

And now they’re seated across from each other in a booth made up of dark, polished tables and bright red leather benches. The colors are not helping her headache and they only remind her of a much lovelier shade of red that hasn’t been far from her mind at any given moment for years.

One of her hands fidgets with the hem of her dress, the other is clutched around her cup of coffee. She doubts the drink would do more than fall like lead in her already upset stomach, so she uses it to warm her fingers instead. It's a small comfort.

Luisa finally looks at Rose again after a few heavy, excruciating minutes have passed. “I deserve better than this.”

“Yes.”

“I deserve your honesty and your respect.”

“ _Yes_.”

She sighs and pulls her other hand onto the table, so she can clasp them together. Like she’s about to pray, though she hasn’t done that since her mother didn’t-die when she was six. “I wish I could quit you, Rose. I deserve more than a life on the run with some...” Her teeth grind together, but she holds her finger up so Rose doesn’t interrupt. If she doesn’t throw this out now, she might never. “With some killer person who helped criminals escape from the police and who fed off people’s addictions and—”

That’s the one she has never been able to deal with. Her fingers tremble as she tries desperately to push away the memories of her worst relapse to date, when she realized she was falling in love for Rose like she had never fallen for anyone, wild and all-consuming and burrowed so deep, growing at an alarming rate. Rose had been there to pick up the pieces, but all that time...

All that time she had been Sin Rostro, who had dealt in the kind of heavy drugs that took people’s souls and then their lives.

Her voice breaks and tears track down her cheeks, smudging out her carefully applied wedding make-up, rivulets of black splashing onto the table’s surface. She looks outside for a moment, to reign herself in, but looking at the sleek car standing out among the crappy cars on the parking lot, the evening sky lightening to morning; none of it _helps_.

“I love you.” She throws it out, because it’s true. It has always been true. And it’s been feeding on her, chewing her up and spitting her out. It’s not the sort of thing you’re _supposed_ to keep to yourself and knowing how impossible their relationship was, how complex, had only allowed it to fester with poison. “God, Rose, I _love_ you. I have always loved you. I—I love you. I can’t breathe, I can’t heal, I can’t do _anything_ without you on my mind every second of every day and I love you, Rose. I love you so much it kills me.”

Rose is crying now, too, and Luisa has never, _ever_ seen her cry before. Not like this, anyway. She has seen a few artfully-produced tears well at the rims of her eyes, clinging to long, dark lashes. She hasn’t seen this quiet unraveling, trembling bottom lip and fast blinking and pained breaths.

Their hands find each other in the middle of the table. Even after all that has happened, Luisa feels like she’s in a roiling sea that _wants_ to drag her under, choke the last bits of air from her, and Rose is there to anchor her.

When Luisa finally winds down in hiccups, palms roughly rubbing through her eyes as if to push the tears back, she feels exhausted but like a weight has been lifted off of her.

Their coffees are abandoned as they walk back to the car, back to their life together.

Luisa knows they have a long way to go still, has heaps of questions still. They have talked about nothing consequential yet, but she knows all that matters. All that she really needed to know was if Rose was truly a sociopath, incapable of feeling genuine emotion, and now she knows.

She falls asleep in the car, feeling perfectly safe.

* * *

It feels like a hangover when she wakes up. There is pressure all around her and the world rolls, side to side, but smoothly. Usually the world spins and spins and spins until she’s so dizzy she has to get up or ruin her sheets.

Her eyes open and the environment that greets her is all greys, shifting light, endless motion. “Where am I? What’s going on?” And then her eyes settle on Rose, eating powdered donuts in the most sinful, inappropriate way and it becomes even more difficult to think.

“All in good time. Just know—we’re going to have our happily ever after.” She smiles. “I promise.”

Luisa clutches the sheets to her chest, willing the initial fear to subside, willing herself to remember the conversation that they had yesterday, the promise that she would get to find out the answers to all her questions.

“Okay,” she finally mutters, sucking in a breath as she sits further upright. “But are we going to have breakfast first? You’re making me hungry.”

Rose’s smile becomes something brilliantly shining and, though Luisa hates to think it, less _crazy_. She crawls onto the bed and extends the roll of powdered donuts. “I’ve got enough to share if you want any.”

Luisa—impulsive and spontaneous Luisa, total train wreck Luisa—does what she does best. She makes a decision without thinking, leans in to brush the barest, softest of kisses against Rose’s mouth. “You had some sugar on your bottom lip,” she murmurs, smiles, lets herself be held tight and kissed back, and lets herself feel hope that they may be heading towards a happy ending after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, totally wishful thinking. But I had to write it.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you guys thought of the new episode and that last scene... ugh.


End file.
